


prelude

by 1832



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 18:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16539713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1832/pseuds/1832
Summary: He notices how he tries to make things better.





	prelude

Faendal rarely ever drinks; doing such activities late night on a workday, in a mostly empty tavern with only Sven to keep him company is perhaps a further stretch than the initial, but, well, there he is now.

 

He hasn’t had mead or ale in quite a while by then – the dryness yet thick density of honey-like Nord mead runs hot down his throat, and the intensity of alcohol in the draught brings tears to his eyes that he’s far too unconcerned with to repress.

 

Orgnar’s left the bar helpfully unattended, if only to let the two remaining men drown their sorrows in relative peace. The sable-haired bartender has gone for Riverwood night air with a bottle of wine and leaving free reign to the men, in exchange for their tabs to be paid that night or _Delphine will do you in, I’m not joking_.

 

The two men keep their distance, and Faendal is surprised that Sven willingly lets himself press to the back of the inn, possibly because the blonde Nord realizes that his temper is rather volatile and being anywhere near the elf will only rouse unpleasant things.

 

Faendal nurses his grief on a barstool, reaching for a second bottle of mead when he hears chair legs squeak and soft footfalls on the unpolished floors.

 

Sven appears, and Faendal doesn’t know what to do. Feigning blissful ignorance, he tilts his head to sip when the Nord slides into the barstool two stools away from the elf.

 

“So. Camilla.”

 

The Nord wastes no time, but he’ll find that Faendal won’t so easily melt into a talk like some simpering milkmaid. Faendal’s older, wiser, and knows better than to engage in conversation now, at this time, in this state, with this person.

 

Sven sighs, balancing his own bottle of ale. He pays no mind to Faendal’s silence. “Her and the Dragonborn.”

 

Faendal takes another sip in silence when Sven steals a testing glance at the elf. Under influence, Faendal returns the glance with one that’s not quite provoking, but not really amiable.

 

Sven blinks, sighs again, and then looks away. “We’d never stand a chance.”

 

It starts there, basking in the warm glow of the open hearth and alcohol sloshing in their underfed bellies - something unfamiliar and new.

 

 

~(*)~

 

 

Sven comes to work, a week later. They have a truce, him and Faendal, and haven’t spoken a word to or about each other since the tavern meeting.

 

And despite the elf widening his eyes when the blonde saunters over the chopping block, ax in hand and the other rubbing the bad night before from his eyes, Faendal has little intention to break the cold war.

 

Even Gerdur is surprised, he notes; she blinks a few times in a row, uncommon for a bear of a woman like her, when Sven ambles by with some firewood on his arm. Hod whistles at the Nord boy and grins at him when Sven glances over. The man pulls Faendal aside when the elf went up to work the mill.

 

“Look at him,” Hod says, pointing a shoulder at the young Nord bringing down an axe and missing the log by an inch. “Incompetent boy. Maybe Camilla leaving’s whipped him to shape.”

 

Faendal’s chest swells at the mention of that name, and he does little but nod stiffly until Hod roughly slaps his back and leaves him to his shift. He gets called down later into the day, and tumbling down the mill, he doesn’t expect to find Sven leaned against a post, waiting for his turn to work the mill while inspecting his grimy nails with a haughty frown.

 

Then again, Gerdur is his _employer_ – not this insufferable Nord youth, and he turns his attention away before Sven catches his eye. Gerdur stands by her usual desk, blinking heavy-lidded eyes down at her ledger. Her feral Nord instincts pick up the dirt crunching under Faendal’s boots, and she approaches him before he can call for her.

 

“I need you to hunt some rabbits,” Gerdur says curtly, and Faendal quirks a brow.

 

“I know it’s unusual, but Orgnar says the tavern needs more meat and they can’t wait until the weekends,” Gerdur says, and then looks over Faendal’s shoulder with narrowed eyes. “And Hilde’s boy is staring at you. I don’t want trouble if you two stay here.”

 

That’s really all he needs.

 

He leaves then and figures the five arrows he has in his quiver should be enough to take down a dozen rabbits. He reminds himself that Dorthe reported wolves howling close the southern entrance, so he heads towards the north, and doesn’t mind the chatter of Sven yelling to Gerdur to ask _where is he going_ , and Gerdur’s reply of _none of your business, insolent child, go back to work_.

 

Faendal passes the guards, retired for supper, and regards them with a dismissive nod that’s returned promptly. As he leaves to climb up the ledge, a quiet conversation echoes behind him.

 

“Isn’t that the elf who’s intimate with the bard boy?”

 

“Should be. See how the child’s still staring at him?”

 

His chest clenches then; he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t hate Sven anymore, not as much, now that the cause of their rift is well gone. Maybe it’s confusion; a week before, Sven suddenly speaks to him like they’re acquaintances like it hasn’t just been a week or two ago the blonde confronts him about the letter and the two brawl within the vicinities of the elf’s home.

 

And now, the townspeople begin to talk of the two’s reconciliation. He hears Alvor earlier when he goes to pick up lunch, _I’m glad those boys won’t cause trouble anymore_ , and then his wife replying _it’s good they’ve become closer_. He left his house once, to see Dorthe wringing her hands in front of his door, where she timidly asks him if he can _ask your bard friend to sing me a happy birthday today_.

 

In truth, Faendal doesn’t see Sven in an animated light – he doesn’t see Sven in any light now. He’s still trying to forget Camilla, but forgetting the bruises and scars he and Sven left each other in their encounters is much easier now that the two don’t have much to quarrel about.

 

Faendal spots a hare out of his peripheral view; he bends down behind shrubbery and draws an arrow and a breath.

 

And why did they call Sven a child, anyway? It’s not like there’s much of an age difference between them. Since Faendal came to Riverwood as a fresh-faced teenager of fifteen, Sven was only shy of fourteen, and even then his punches already stung and left bruises. Sven had shot up through the years, shoulders taking after his Nord heritage because they grow increasingly broad, yet his face remains youthful and hair stays golden; Faendal never considers this whenever he ducks under Sven’s swings or takes a potshot with his troll skull on Sven’s head, but now, he does.

 

Is it because of his already silver hair? He’d arrived at Riverwood with his platinum hair blonder, but he clearly remembers that though his hair whitens some villagers still wish him a happy birthday on the correct day with the correct age.

 

Maybe it’s Sven’s face, how he acts. He speaks with charisma to his words, and his face emotes accordingly – his eyes are blue enough to be captivating to those he talks to and his golden hair maybe soft enough to run hands through-

 

The rabbit squeals as Faendal’s arrow pierces it, and he releases the breath he’s been holding. _That’s one down_.

 

He returns when the day becomes late, dragging with him strung together rabbits. He’s barely collected any perspiration on his forehead – hunting lapin creatures is barely tough work, but when he finds Sven lounging, leaning by the stone archway leading into the village, he finds himself suddenly growing weary.

 

Sven notices him approaching, and ceases the inspection of his now clean cuticles. He glares at the strung rabbits and squints.

 

Faendal isn’t in the mood for him; he never is and never will be. “What do you want, Nord?”

 

Sven snorts and his eyes meet Faendal’s, blue and the kind that is as intense as tidal waves. “Why haven’t you killed me already, long ago?”

 

Faendal hardens his gaze and frowns. “You think you’re worth the penalty?”

 

Sven snorts again. “You’re good enough a shot.”

 

The breeze blows, and the air hangs heavy. Did Sven just, _compliment_ , him?

 

Sven ignores the intense glare Faendal is giving to the cobbled road to fight off becoming flustered and turns on his heel. “I’m headed to the inn.”

 

It’s not an invitation. Sven knows Faendal is headed there too, but the elf waits until the Nord enters the tavern before making his way there. He finds Sven casually strumming his lute where he usually is, on a chair by the door, and pays him no mind as he goes to surrender the rabbits to Orgnar and collect his payment.

 

All the same, he sticks around to drink more. Sven eyes him when he plops down the chair one skip beside the Nord, but they don’t say anything. The silence is mutual.

 

 

~(*)~

 

 

Sven doesn’t come to work until four days after, and Gerdur and Hod don’t bat an eyelash. Faendal does, where he goes to pile the firewood, and maybe regrets it when Sven notices.

 

The inn is satisfied with their supplies, for now, so the day goes by with relative silence, excepting every time Hod walks past Faendal and opens that loud mouth of his to say _I bet the boy only comes for mead money_ and Gerdur approaching him to say _work harder_.

 

Most thoughts of Sven from four days prior have vanished, and though the air of hostility that rises whenever Sven sits anywhere close to the elf in the inn has dissipated, Faendal would seldom consider Sven an acquaintance, much less a friend.

 

They have an odd arrangement, only four days old. Sven and Faendal always stay behind after the other customers of the inn leave to retire for the day, and Orgnar would ask them if they wanted to stay longer; none of them have objected so far, but it’s always Sven who moans in disagreement from wherever he’s sitting to signify that the two men want to linger. Faendal doesn’t object – he has no reason to.

 

Something he still thinks about is yesterday’s exchange. After Orgnar asks and Sven gives his obligatory moan, the older Nord sighs and then grumbles _don’t make a mess on my bed_. Faendal first thinks it’s him warning them not to vomit on the furniture, which is something he does in the confines of his own home – but then Sven screams _with him?_ and he gains second thoughts.

 

What, do the days they spend drinking in solemn silence seem too conspicuous that Orgnar expects they do… something else? Faendal doesn’t know how he feels about the thought, and he barely wants to entertain it.

 

He’s working the mill now, and Sven is waiting for his shift below – Faendal doesn’t know if the Nord’s presence helps or drags his thoughts further down the gutter.

 

The Nord is singing, Faendal realizes, some sweet tune of sickly romance that, at first, fails to rouse any thoughts of Camilla. His voice is soft enough to distract – compared to the belting and shouting he does in the inn, using a strong, overpowering timbre that appeals little to Faendal beneath the townspeople’s thunderous cheers, this one is considerably smaller. Like a fawn compared to a stag – though it is less impressive in terms of grandiose, it seems appealing nonetheless.

 

The notes seem to pour forth his throat effortlessly, and somehow Faendal imagines his voice tasting like the honey used to make mead. He pushes the lever for the last time, and when his boots squeak as he turns around, the singing rattles to a stop and Faendal stops himself from saying _no, keep singing, boy with the velvety voice_.

 

Sven watches him walk down the mill, and Faendal avoids his gaze with practiced ease. The Nord remains quiet as Faendal goes to pick up the ax.

 

“You heard me,” he says, finally, with an accusatory tone when Faendal reaches for a log. The elf merely grunts, and Sven immediately drops it.

 

And yet, as the Nord leaves for the mill, Faendal mutters to himself, “you sing well enough.”

 

His heart skips when Sven calls out with a shrill voice from the mill, “what was that!”

 

He doesn’t forget and feels Sven doesn’t either, when the two see each other once more in the inn.

 

 

~(*)~

 

 

He doesn’t see Sven anymore, not at work, at least, the next day. Gerdur and Hod barely pay any mind – Sven does as much work that Faendal already bears on a day without his coworker, so it doesn’t tax their efforts and income much. In fact, if anything, it helps – it’s one less person to pay.

 

The day wraps up quick, quicker now that there isn’t Sven to yell at for getting distracted by butterflies on the job. Faendal pockets the pay he receives and has a mind to head for the Inn – at least until he sees Sven staring intently at him from the Trader, after going a day without glimpsing the blond once.

 

“I’m going to the inn,” Sven tells Faendal when the elf passes. “Come with.”

 

Faendal doesn’t know why Sven says this when it’s already an unspoken agreement between the two. Especially when they enter, Sven suddenly shuts up again, without much explanation, and Faendal slowly forgets as the evening progresses.

 

Until Orgnar picks up a bottle of wine from the storage, and asks, “you boys staying overtime?”

 

Sven moans, and Faendal suddenly remembers.

 

The inn falls silent for a little, after Orgnar leaves. Then Sven drags himself to the barstool, the one only one stool away from Faendal now and Faendal knows the Nord is going to speak.

 

“So,” Sven clears his throat with a melodic hum. “The ceremony is today.”

 

Faendal doesn’t speak, just raises a quizzical silver brow.

 

Sven coughs. “Camilla and the Dragonborn.”

 

Oh.

 

Faendal falters.

 

_Oh_.

 

The elf wrenches his eyes shut. “Don’t.”

 

“I won’t,” Sven calmly says. “I just wanted to tell you that I received an invitation.”

 

Faendal cracks his eyes open. “Oh, wow.”

 

Sven laughs bitterly. “Ha, yeah. So much for the Dragonborn’s chivalry.”

 

Faendal stifles the want to laugh, yet a snort escapes him. Sven doesn’t seem to mind, as he chuckles along. “If it makes you feel any better.”

 

That makes it easier for the elf to not laugh. “Why should it?”

 

The silence permeates for a little longer until Sven disperses it with a sigh. “I know you still have hard feelings for me; I haven’t been the nicest sport these past weeks after we beat each other up and everything. But then – Camilla ups and goes, all of a sudden, and suddenly I don’t know what to think of you anymore. We have nothing to fight for, fight against for, and I don’t know how to make of it. Make of _you_.” He drops his gaze to the table and Faendal chances a fleeting glance at him.

 

“I guess what I’m trying to say is: I don’t… hate you as much?”

 

When Faendal fails to reply, Sven gulps his wine, a deviation to his usual and more brute tastes. “I also… cried a little.”

 

Faendal prepares himself.

 

“I also don’t hate you.”

 

Sven stops; he cuts off his chugging mid-swallow and tosses Faendal a glance that stays. “I- _what_?”

 

Faendal returns the glance. “I don’t hate you. I mean, I used to – maybe you’re still insufferable, maybe you’re still a pompous, self-righteous prat, but I don’t… _hate_ you. With Camilla leaving, I found no reason to. You’re just another person now, another person I have to stand with. Another person I drink with.” _And maybe I kinda like your stupid face now_.

 

_Stupid, pretty face_.

 

Sven gives a mirthful laugh, something clashing with the sour undertone of his earlier embittered emotions. Faendal gives a grin in the amusement of the situation, but as the Nord settles down, he turns away until his own expression dissipates.

 

Sven breathes the last of his laughs, and the sound of his bottle’s bottom sweeping the counter echoes. “So, I just noticed you’re… kind of an okay shot.”

 

_Oh, please,_ Faendal wants to say, but the elf knows this is Sven’s way of offering reconciliation. He doesn’t know why, but here, now, feeling Sven’s eyes glaring at him and Faendal picking his own chin up to return the glare, he feels inclined to play along.

 

“Fine,” Faendal returns. “You can sing okay,” he pauses himself. “I guess.”

 

Sven’s mouth curves into a coy smile, and the stools rattle as he slides to the one right beside Faendal.

 

The air settles now, with tension curling up between the small distance as Sven’s face closes in with the elf’s. His breath reeks of sweet alcohol, ghosting wisps across Faendal’s lips, and under the warm glow of the open hearth and cool breeze of the night swirling, Faendal thinks he knows where this is going.

 

“I’ll regret this tomorrow,” Sven mutters, warm breath _there_ , and then he kisses Faendal.

 

It’s somewhere between chaste and bold, a mix of feelings that boil down into a cesspit but the good kind. The curiosity can be felt, the questions, the immature uncertainty between two rivals simmering down on their hate. The unspoken _I never knew how Camilla tasted like, but is this as good_?

 

Sven’s tongue darts to sweep coyly over Faendal’s upper lip, and that’s when the wood elf realizes where things might be going. He isn’t absolutely terrible at kissing – he just isn’t as _good_. Sven uses his tongue like his life depends on it, and though his lips still mold, his tongue goes everywhere – expertly exploring the crevices of his partner’s mouth, moving in sync. The Nord abruptly lets his hands wander to dips of Faendal’s waist, and the elf unconsciously places his hand on the Nord’s chest to prevent their distance from further closing in.

 

Sven frowns at this, lips still supple and kiss-swollen. “Sorry.”

 

Faendal shakes his head, and he’s sure that the pink is already visible on his already reddish complexion.

 

“It’s not that,” the elf hisses. “Just – just not _here_.”

 

The blond takes a moment to register – but when he does, his face brightens with a grin. That’s all it takes.

 

It’s _new_ , yes, but Faendal has probably forgotten to realize how _familiar_ it’s become.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ew, my first rodeo. You can tell I wrote this on a whim and in one go - I don't really regret it, this tag is criminally vacant.


End file.
